drunk things from my typewriter



shots to death


i felt dead and
well, that's alright.
i'll try not to offend.
maybe you can smell it but
probably
you can't.
some call it a gift
like being able to train a dog.
give your death
some
sort
of
discipline.
sit and stay and eat
when your food is on
the floor.
i smell you
i know you
spilling and staining
curdling the food in my stomach
we know each other
you, and i
so don't forget
and talk to me not as a stranger
but as a friend.